


don we now our gay apparel

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See, there's a plan (spoiler: it tastes of crack). And it's a crazy plan. And Stiles has to get dressed up for a fake date to fool a crazy ghost and all of his clothes are basically the same so he ends up wearing the outfit that he wore before when the Sheriff told him that he wasn't gay. Because of what he was wearing.<br/>Except the Sheriff's apparently changed his tune and now the outfit does make him look... well... gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don we now our gay apparel

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.

Stiles stared into the depths of his closet. There was probably a metaphor in that somewhere. He balanced his weight from one foot to another. It wasn't as if he had a thousand options. Mostly his dad just bought him the same thing, in different colors.

He'd always wondered why Lydia often said this sort of thing took her hours, or that she didn't have anything to wear, and finally he was starting to understand.

And this wasn't even a real freaking date.

Stiles sighed and picked up the first outfit to hand. It wasn't like clothes dictated the man. Considering who he was fake dating for the next couple of weeks he was never going to measure up physically, so maybe he should just give up and let Derek Hale's shoulders carry enough attractiveness for _both_ of them.

 

 

John looked up contemplatively at the ceiling as Stiles' clattering dislodged some old particles of plaster down onto his paperwork. The house was getting on in years now, and John could hear all of Stiles' pacing.

Scott had given him the digest, even though it had given John a headache – Deaton could help re-grow the Nemeton and stop it drawing in the supernatural (and goddammit, John really could do with that. Continually losing deputies to terrible murder or to being bloodsucking creatures of the night was getting a little old), but to do that he needed a special knife. Which they could get from a hunter two states over, but the hunter wanted a copy of a book that was in a private library upstate. Which they could get if they got a magical blah blah from a blah, blah, blah—

Okay, so in his own defence, John has had a very trying week. Scott _tried_ to give him the digest, but it had been delivered along with so many of Stiles' helpful interjections that John had gotten lost somewhere around step nine (exchanging a first edition _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ for half a pallet of fermented Cassandra root?) He just wasn't going to admit that to Stiles any time soon that he hadn't been .

It all somehow boiled down to the pack all having to pair off – one human (or banshee, because Lydia's powers outside of the classroom or mall were negligible) to one shapeshifter – infiltrating local theaters to find out which one currently has possession of a cursed film reel. They had to pretend to be dating for some reason or other which was phrased like in the best interests of not spooking the film reel's current inhabitant, but which mostly sounded like a flimsy excuse for Scott and Kira to neck in the back row.

John wasn't even sure who Stiles would be working with. He hoped for the sake of the theater employees that it wasn't Scott. Based on the amount of heartfelt angsting over his wardrobe, it had to be someone he wanted to impress. Malia Tate, then. Her unfortunate true genetics aside, she was a nice-enough girl, even if sometimes he did turn around to see her surreptitiously clawing his drapes into a nest during pack meetings.

The pacing stopped, followed by a muffled heartfelt sigh, and then followed by clattering down the stairs. John looked up to see Stiles wearing a grey-colored outfit and his jaw dropped a little.

 

 

"I know I don't have long, but I'm gonna try and beat my ride to the thing tonight, gonna try and raid Scott's—" Stiles started, and then trundled to a halt, both his words and his feet. His dad was staring at him and he looked gobsmacked. "Dad, are you okay?"

"Uh," John said and blinked a few times. He tried to cross his arms menacingly and failed at his first attempt. "Who—who did you say you were doing this thing with?"

Stiles blinked in return. "I… didn't?"

"Hm," John said. He crossed his arms more successfully this time. "And who is it that you're being paired with for this… thing?"

Stiles frowned. "Seriously, Dad, are you feeling okay? Are you drinking enough water? It's important to stay hydrated."

John's eyebrows crept up his forehead.

Stiles squinted and rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. "Just Derek. No one else would work with him, it's that occasional growling and those hiccups he makes that sound weirdly like violent death threats, so—"

"Derek," John said. "Derek _Hale._ You're going to a movie theater on a pretend date with _Derek Hale._ "

"Pretend," Stiles stressed, waving his hands. "It's all just _fake._ The books say the reel's possessed by an old starlet hung up on romance. She's likely to miss the salt canisters if she's busy cooing over how cute we're pretending to be. Relax, Dad, my virtue is safe."

John shook his head. "I don't like it."

"You were okay with this earlier," Stiles said, instantly arguing because it was his default response to all things. Including (or especially) impending doom. Also, it was starting to feel increasingly likely that his father had started to lose his freaking mind. "What's changed?"

"What's changed?" John gestured at Stiles. " _That's_ changed. You're not going out dressed all like— _that._ "

"Which is why I was gonna go to Scott and borrow some—" Stiles trailed off. "Wait, what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Stiles tugged at the striped hoodie, the nondescript jeans.

"It's just—You look—" John gestured again, ineloquently. "You just—"

"What? Do I look fat? Ugly? Insane? I probably look insane. Man, I knew insane was a genuine fashion look. Lydia tried to tell me there was no such thing as _insane_ unless it was plaid on plaid on plaid, but—"

"No," John said, and gesticulated again with his paperwork, looking frazzled. "You look _gay._ "

 

 

 

There was a long staring match in the Stilinski kitchen.

Stiles, naturally, was the first to break it. "That…" Stiles said, slowly, holding his hands out like John was a wounded animal. "That sounded remarkably—"

"Oh, my god," John blurted, because there was a look of genuine suspicion and hurt on Stiles' face, along with a healthy dose of judgment. "No, no, no. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying it's a thing. I don't… mind if it's a thing? It's a perfectly fine—"

"Wow, Dad," Stiles said, folding his arms in one smooth movement, "do continue to eloquently dig yourself out of _that_ hole."

"I'm not a—" John said, heatedly, and then he sagged. "I didn't mean to come _across_ phobic or judgmental or negative. You just surprised me."

"You surprised me?" Stiles blinked. "Dad, the last time I wore this – this _exact outfit_ – you said I couldn't be gay. _Because of this outfit._ "

"Well, you weren't," John said.

Stiles unfolded his arms and did a crazy hand gesture which was apparently _Stiles_ for 'I think you just proved my point for me.'

"And I guess I was wrong just now, because I was right back then – you aren't gay," John said. "'cause I didn't raise any son of mine to bi-erase—"

" _Bi-erase,_ " Stiles mouthed, exaggeratedly. John resisted the urge to facepalm because he'd already lost a ton of major adult points, he wasn't going to give the rest up without a fight.

"I meant—If you want this to be seen by all… parties… that this is a fake… date," John said, slowly, "then you might want to wear something else."

"But—" Stiles cast about himself, trying to get a glimpse of his own ass, and looking very much like a dog chasing its own tail. "This is what I _always_ wear. Minus an array of delightfully snazzy and witty shirts, but—"

"Then," John said heavily, "I guess that's just how you look now."

Stiles stared at his father like he'd grown an extra head. It was Beacon Hills. It was _possible._ "Gay—" Stiles started. John shook his head, which was his only one as far as he could tell. " _Bi_ is how I look now."

John pursed his mouth and looked at his son, assessing. "Guess so," he said.

 

 

 

Derek knew he was early. Stiles didn't look too appreciative of the fact. He dutifully beeped his car horn and sat at the end of the drive, the engine idling. The front door to the Stilinski house slammed open and Stiles clattered out, an explosion of noise and limbs.

"Great, I don't even have time to raid Scott's closet, thanks to you!" Stiles yelled at the door.

"I have a spare dress uniform," a voice floated out as Stiles slammed the door shut. "And _stay safe,_ " Stiles' Dad added.

"Weirdo," Stiles said under his breath and stormed down the driveway. "My dad," Stiles clarified, "not you." Stiles made a _hmm_ sound under his breath. "Maybe you," Stiles conceded as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Derek stared at him, at the elegant movement of his limbs and the softness of the hoodie against the skin of Stiles' neck, and he swallowed hard. This was a pretend date, to try and find the right theater, and then if they were successful, follow that up by finding the right cursed reel, and then playing up to a dead woman's penchant for romance to distract her from the presence of salt in order to erase her from her supernatural existence. The act was going to have to be _perfect_ from start to finish, because if there was a ghost, she could be hiding in the lobby, in the screens, in the bathroom… Derek was just glad there were only six theaters in the county, so this rigmarole was only going to happen a maximum of twice.

"What?" Stiles said, noticing Derek's glare. "Oh, man. Not you too. Dad got on my case about what I was wearing. I think he's lost it."

"Uh," Derek said and quickly turned to the steering wheel, his hand quickly turning the keys in the ignition, gunning the engine. His tongue feels too big for his mouth all of a sudden. "Well—"

"Not you too!" Stiles yanked out his phone and started punching keys violently. "Hey, Scott, it's me. We've gotta swing by your house for a second." Stiles eyeballed Derek over the handset – Derek rolled his eyes but pulled the car out onto the road and onto the turning to Scott's house. "Yeah, I need to—" He straightened in his seat and Derek's fingers tensed on the wheel. "What do you mean you went to an early show—I can't believe you'd go and see the new _Transformers_ without—She's there?" Stiles lowered the handset. "The ghost's with Scott and Kira right now. Floor it."

 

 

 

Stiles should have known something was up with Derek from him following his command. Well, it wasn't like he was going to find some clue to Derek's mental state in his _words._

He didn't know at first. Mostly because he was too concerned with running two blocks because the theater Scott and Kira were at had no spaces in the parking lot. Then they had to wait in line for an agonizing three minutes to buy tickets in order to get into the building, to get to the bathroom, to try and rescue Scott and Kira.

The ghost was pinning them up on the ceiling. She seemed mostly transparent, but she occasionally crackled like television static, and she would not look out of place as an extra on the set of _Gone With the Wind_.

"Thought you'd fake a relationship in front of _me_?" the ghost howled, blasting Scott and Kira with purple energy. She didn't seem to have noticed Stiles and Derek skidding into the room as she sent another blast. "Did you think you could _salt and burn me like I'm some damned amateur_?"

"But we _are_ a real couple," Kira protested. "I love him!"

"I love her too," Scott protested.

"You can't love one of _them,_ " the ghost howled.

"Ohh," Stiles said, as Derek fumbled with the salt in his pocket, "she's an old _racist_ ghost. Why didn't we think of that?"

"Hell boy, I'm not racist," the ghost snapped, and then whirled around, glaring at Stiles now. Stiles backed up, right into Derek's chest. "I'll grant I may be species-ist. Ain't nothin' gone well with a fox and a hound. Walt Disney'll tell you that himself."

"Walt Disney died 15 years before Fox and the Hound," Scott said, struggling against the purple energy crackling over him.

"I died eighty years ago, does it look like it's stopping me, boy?" the ghost screamed.

"I guess not, ma'am," Scott said.

"I dislike immensely that I can't stab this energy," Kira said, sounding sad rather than in pain, so at least there was _that._

"I'm not giving up my reel. I like living in it. Ain't gonna let some snot-nosed punks exorcize me," the ghost said. She eyeballed Stiles speculatively. "You're not here to exorcize me, are you?"

"Um," Derek said, badly holding onto the bag of salt ready to throw at her. It had to be thrown when her back was turned, and you only got one shot. It was nice that they'd all started to learn some sort of caution, even if their plans had grown steadily more convoluted over the years. "No, just here on a date with my, uh, Stiles."

Stiles manfully suppressed a yelp as Derek slid an arm around his waist.

"Hmmm." The ghost narrowed her eyes. "Well, I buy the obvious manscaping thing." She gestured at Derek's neck. "And the boy—"

"I'm not a boy," Stiles protested.

"You do look hella gay," the ghost said.

"Oh, my god," Stiles exploded. "I can't believe—You and my dad, both! One year these clothes make me look not-gay, now they magically make me look _gay_ —It's not my freaking clothes, people! Clothes do _not make the gay._ " He jabbed his finger in the air viciously.

The ghost blinked. "I guess that's true. You two go and enjoy necking in the back row. I've got some trash to deal with." She flounced around and Derek threw the salt. The ghost exploded in a burst of purple light. Scott and Kira fell from the ceiling with matching screams. Then they landed on all fours, because Stiles' friends were all _ridiculous._

"That was _seriously_ the best plan we could come up with to do this?" Stiles said, toeing the purple ectoplasmic gloop on the floor. "Massive fake dating crazy? Couldn't we have, like, put salt in the sprinkler system and put a small open flame under the sensor? Salt out _every_ movie theater in the county?"

Scott, Kira and Derek blinked at him in unison. Stiles sighed. Someone needed to teach Scott that just because the whole supernatural world tended to bend to his bizarre machinations didn't mean that _every_ plan had to be a menagerie of strange.

"My plan worked," Scott said, defensively. "And thank goodness you wore that outfit! The ghost was right, you do kind of look—"

"Arrrgghhhhhhh," Stiles said. "Nope. _Nope._ Clothes don't make anyone look—" Three faces were still looking at him blankly. "Okay, maybe these clothes make me look a _little_ —"

"A lot," Kira amended, blatantly checking out his ass. Scott made a puppy-dog face. Kira shrugged, unrepentant. "They make you look a _lot_ — _"_

"Hot," Derek said.

Stiles whirled on his heel. Derek stared at him, eyes wide, looking for all the world like he didn't mean to say it out loud. Scott hid a laugh behind a hand and that made Derek look angrier.

"That's right," Derek said, jutting his chin mulishly. "Stiles looks hot in those clothes." He glared, a _what are you going to do about it_ glare.

Scott's smile faded, but Kira's grew. Probably in anticipation of a sword fight if she played her cards right.

Stiles thought about it. "If I'm hot," he offered, "maybe I should take my clothes off."

Derek looked like he'd been the one slammed to the ceiling by a crazy ghost.

 

 

 

"They're wrong about the clothes," Derek said, panting against Stiles' bare shoulder. "You didn't look gay in those clothes."

" _Thank_ you," Stiles said.

Derek looked at him slyly. "You kinda look gay _now_ though."

Stiles looked down at the space between their bodies, aka, no space at all. He supposed Derek had a point.


End file.
